


Falling As We Grow

by SmartKIN



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF!Stiles, Darkness Around The Heart, Doing What Is Necessary, Gore, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Murder, Post 3a, Revenge, Unethical Choices, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-15 00:45:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmartKIN/pseuds/SmartKIN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is done with feeling hunted, feeling unsafe even though there are no immediate threats looming on the horizon. So he tracks down those who should be dead but aren’t, and ties up loose ends.</p>
<p>Fortunately, Peter Hale is along for the ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jennifer Blake

**Author's Note:**

> I was planning on writing a slow build Steter fanfic that started out with them being partners in crime and ending up with pretty unconventional pack dynamics, but I gotta cut this short for now because of RL reasons. If I end up having more time, I will certainly write a sequel or two.
> 
> Thank you so much, [BethBobby](http://ghostlywhitedirewolf.tumblr.com/), for proofreading this for me, you are amazing!
> 
> Also, if anyone is interested, my tumblr: [Lloydoholic](http://lloydoholic.tumblr.com)
> 
> **Edit:** Parts of this fic were once more edited by myself and the lovely [Sydbull](http://sydbull.tumblr.com), thank you so much <3

It was a week before Halloween and for the first time since Stiles could remember, he wasn’t excited about the prospect of dressing up like a nerd.

He had never imagined that such a day would come. But here it was.

Last year he had simply forgotten about Halloween because he had been busy with running for his life, helping Scott with his wolfy problems and trying to track down a serial killer.

He couldn’t even remember what he had been doing last Halloween.

Post-Kanima, however, things had started to look up and he had, maybe naively, believed that this year he would be able to enjoy some well-earned trick-or-treatin’.

During the summer holidays he had made a vague decision to dress up as Little Red Riding Hood come October, mainly just to revel in Derek’s constipated face to be honest.

But after the latest Darach-and-Alpha-Pack-related mess, he just couldn’t be bothered. He still got a little lightheaded whenever he remembered the carnage that had happened in little under two months.

So, really, Halloween wasn’t very high on his list right now.

Instead, he was spending his days plotting a murder or two.

Some time ago, Stiles had misappropriated a flip chart from his dad’s office for his own supernatural investigations. Back then, his dad had still been ignorant of the supernatural world, so he’d had to be sneaky about smuggling it into his room. Whenever Stiles wasn’t working on anything, he just hid the thing in the guestroom. More accurately, the _closet_ in the guestroom.

Now, his dad was very much ‘in the know’, what with getting kidnapped and almost ritually sacrificed and everything, but Stiles still kept the flip chart in its hiding spot.

Good thing too, because right about now it was coming in handy once again.

Stiles leaned back in his chair, stretching until his joints popped satisfyingly and looked at the chart a couple of feet next to his desk.

Neither his illegal police-related contacts, nor the tireless hours spent researching had generated new information.

He dragged a hand through his hair, spiking it up further, and contemplated calling it a night. His dad would be home soon and _under no circumstances_ was the sheriff to see his creepy serial-killer-esque information gathering escapades.

He sighed and studied the chart.

There were three photos haphazardly pinned to it with varying amounts of information fanning out around them in black, circling tidbits.

Jennifer Blake’s photo was at the top with a big, fat question mark drawn underneath. That woman (if he could even call her that, he wasn’t so sure) was a ghost, information-wise, like she’d dropped off the face of the earth. There were no traces of her post-showdown.

Scott had told him that Ms. Blake had managed to crawl away from the warehouse and neither he nor Derek had been able to find her.

No one had used her credit card since, her car was still parked where she had left it and there was no record of her skipping town, or booking a hotel, a rental, a flight. Just nothing.

His dad had been able to pin most of the murders on her without raising too much suspicion and had put out an APB, but so far there had been no sightings at gas stations or grocery stores. But then, maybe she just used magic to change her appearance. Stiles knew nothing about druidic magic and Deaton remained as vague on the subject as ever.

A couple of inches below Ms. Blake’s photo was a picture he’d nicked from Matt Daehler’s laptop that was still locked up at the station – a high definition photo of Gerard Argent waiting in front of their school. Well, Allison actually made up most of the shot, but thankfully creepy grandpa’s ugly mug had been close enough to Allison’s face to have been captured on film.

Stiles had carefully folded the photo until only Gerard was visible, because it would have been weird to plot the man’s murder with Allison staring back at him.

In comparison to the other two profiles (and God, why couldn’t the Death Note be an actual thing? It would save him _so much work_ ), Gerard’s featured the most information.

There was an actual address of the motel he was hiding in (painfully extracted from Scott), movements of some of his hunters, phone records, a list of suspicious, probably supernaturally inclined, purchases, pharmacy receipts.

Last but not least was a grainy, woefully pixled print-out of Deucalion’s face, taken from security-camera footage of the apartment building he and the Alpha Pack had lived in.

Deucalion had not rented the apartment under his real name, nor any of his pack mates’ names. Instead he had gone for something that would make it even harder to track him down: John Doe.

If Stiles didn’t feel the acute urge to pump Deucalion’s bloodstream full with wolfsbane, he’d find it in him to applaud the guy’s gall.

After all, there probably weren’t a lot of people out there who felt comfortable with challenging a blind man’s claim. Most of them probably assumed that it was a cruel cosmic joke, being blind _and_ called John Doe.

Stiles only hoped that since Scott had let the dude off the hook, Deucalion would still be using his alias for some time. At least until he got settled somewhere outside of Beacon Hills.

Soon, Stiles would have to ask his dad for more help.

Not that he particularly wanted to, but pretending to be one of his dad’s deputies only worked for so long until somebody found out about it.

Thruthfully, Deucalion was way lower on his hit list than Ms. Blake or Gerard Argent. Of course, the Alpha was still a problem to be dealt with, but Stiles didn’t hate him as fiercely as the Dararch or the psychotic hunter who bisected people with a broad sword in his spare time.

Initially he’d even been reluctant to actually put Deucalion on his list, because there was a teeny-tiny chance that the Alpha was grateful enough for his restored eyesight that he wouldn’t bother them again. And it had been _Scott_ who’d let the man go. Stiles felt really bad going against his best friend’s, _his Alpha’s,_ wishes, especially behind his back.

But he couldn’t just sit back and let this possible train wreck happen. He just _knew_ , deep down in his bones, that Deucalion still posed a threat to them, and he would rather cut off his own arm than let it all come back to bite them in the ass. Well, maybe not _literally_ his arm.

To be honest, that could be his PTSD talking. Just thinking about Deucalion out there in the world plotting their demise almost set off another panic attack.

Rubbing a hand over his haggard face, Stiles closed several useless tabs on his browser. He should really try to catch up on some sleep.

It had been hard lately, sleeping. His dreams were visions filled with death and torture, which was to be expected after all that’s happened to him.

What had caught him by surprise, however, was the lingering phantom pain in his chest. It was a suffocating sensation, squeezing his heart at all times.

At night it was the worst – when everybody went to sleep and nothing could take his mind off the darkness growing in his soul. He could feel it slowly infecting him, bit by bit, and all he could do was take a backseat and watch as it spiraled out of control.

Deaton had warned them about it, Stiles just hadn’t realized it would be a constant physical ache in his chest, haunting him day and night.

He had anticipated the simmering rage, as well as the shiny new set of skewed morals. And it wasn’t like he’d had a well-adjusted moral compass to begin with. Well, he’d had Scott. It was just that _now_ he felt less inclined to do what Scott would approve of.

And while he had also expected the blood lust, he had thankfully been able to channel that into eliminating threats to his family, his pack, rather than going on a Peter-Hale-inspired rampage.

Stiles didn’t know whether he could actually kill somebody in cold blood.

He sighed again and dropped his head onto his desk with a low but painful thump.

What had his life come to?

He was planning to murder three people for Christ’s sake.

What would his mom say to all of this?

Stiles bit his lip.

He suspected that he wouldn’t be in this situation if his mom were still alive.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, occasionally lifting his head a bit and letting it fall just as painfully back down onto his desk.

After the fifth rinse-and-repeat, he suddenly heard an amused snort from somewhere behind him.

Flailing and accidentally flinging most of his notes across the room in his haste to turn around, Stiles managed to jump to his feet without tumbling gracelessly to the floor.

There, next to his half-opened window, was Peter freaking Hale leaning nonchalantly against the frame like this was a normal occurrence, a smirk firmly in place, the familiar air of mocking superiority clinging to him like the snug V-neck he was wearing.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, because for the love of everything that was holy, he did not want the zombie wolf anywhere near his room.

And with that his heartbeat went through the roof, because Peter Hale was probably the only werewolf who’d never been in his room before, and _ohmigod_ why was the creeper _in his room_?

“If you need help with that,” Peter offered, his eyes flickering briefly to Stiles’ abused forehead, before wandering to something above Stiles’ left shoulder.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach Stiles realized that the wolf was staring at the flip chart.

“Eh..”

He tried to step more fully in front of his serial killer board, obscuring it from Peter’s discerning gaze.

“My, my,” the wolf drawled in sharp-edged appreciation. “You’ve been a busy little bee, haven’t you, Stiles?”

“Whatever,” he muttered. “Get out.”

Peter just chuckled and stepped closer to have a better view of the information Stiles had so tirelessly gathered.

“Why are you even here?” Stiles grumbled and refused to step out of the way and make it any easier for the wolf.

Peter craned his head and didn’t pay him any attention.

“Hmm, not important,” the man replied, staring altogether too hungrily at the flip chart.

Stiles frowned.

“Awesome, then you can leave.”

Peter stepped even closer, thereby effectively invading his personal space. Stiles could feel the heat emanating from the wolf and was almost at the point of caving and just letting the dude do what he wanted.

But he prevailed.

“You know, Stiles,” murmured the wolf thoughtfully. “I never realized that you were quite so... practical.”

Now it was Stiles’ turn to snort.

“Oh yeah? Did you forget the time I set you on fire?”

For a brief moment, Peter’s eyes flashed blue. Then, the wolf grinned predatorily.

“I really like you, Stiles,” Peter remarked, his voice echoing a statement he’d made half a year ago in a certain dark parking garage. Stiles bristled in alarm. He had never liked it when Peter paid attention to him.

But instead of offering anything as equally messed-up as the Bite, Peter turned back to Stiles’ research.

“You don’t have to worry about this one anymore,” the wolf said pensively after a while.

Stiles gave up any pretense of trying to keep Peter away from his hit list.

He craned his neck over his shoulder – and Peter was entirely too close, their chests almost touching – and tried to figure out what Peter was saying.

The wolf raised his arm and dragged index and middle finger oh so slowly over Ms. Blake’s picture.

“This one,” Peter clarified with a strange inflection in his voice.

Stiles’ mind began to race and he turned around more fully to stare at the teacher’s pretty face.

“What do you mean?” he inquired in a breathless whisper. Was Peter saying what he thought he was saying? To just forget about her? That she wasn’t a threat?

He couldn’t do that. She needed to be stopped.

“Of course I have to worry about her! Did you forget what she did? She kidnapped my dad, she killed- killed--” _Tara_ , he couldn’t say. _Heather_.

A wet noise escaped his throat and his hands curled into fists. For a moment his mind was filled with red-hot swirling rage and all he could think about was the sensation of driving a knife into Ms. Blake’s chest and twisting it around until every last drop of blood had trickled out of her horribly deformed body.

“ _She has to die!_ ”

“You aren’t listening,” Peter whispered silkily into his ear. The wolf was now almost wrapped around him, standing chest-to-back behind him with one arm still stretched forward and touching the picture, face turned sideways and intimately crowding his own. “You don’t have to worry about her... anymore.”

Stiles’ heart stopped.

“Explain,” he croaked, his mind reeling.

“I took care of her,” murmured the wolf, the self-satisfying grin audible in his voice.

“You killed her,” he whispered hollowly. Killed her. Killed Jennifer Blake, the Darach, the women who he had fantasized killing with his bare hands.

Peter made an affirmative noise at the back of his throat.

Stiles didn’t know whether he wanted to thank him or punch him in the face.

Feeling too tired all of a sudden, he pulled his eyes away from her photo and tipped his head back, his empty gaze aimed at the bare ceiling.

When Peter stepped back and gave him a little more space, Stiles shivered.

He felt cold, worn out. Somehow he would have to get himself a werewolf blanket. What a market niche, he thought. Maybe he could be rich. Sell pelts to the highest bidder. A hysterical laugh bubbled up his throat, but he managed to stifle it.

“Is this Argent’s current address?” the wolf suddenly asked, effectively snapping him out of his mental detour.

Stiles looked at the little blurb next to Gerard’s picture and nodded.

“Yeah.”

Peter took out his phone and snapped a quick picture, before sliding it back into his pocket.

Then, the wolf turned to look at Stiles. There was an intense expression on his face – determined and serious. Like this wasn’t the time to be a sleazy creep.

“I will deal with Argent,” Peter assured him firmly. “You just keep researching Deucalion.”

Stiles wasn’t stupid. He knew what this was ultimately about. And Peter, well. Peter had called him “the clever one” for a reason. There were no misconceptions between them. But Stiles found himself in agreement anyway, even if hunting down the Demon Wolf would only result in Peter becoming the next Alpha of the greater Becon Hills area.

Peter sent him one last pregnant look, before gracefully climbing out of his window.

Stiles stared after him, not quite sure what had just happened, or what he should do now.

Peter had killed Ms. Blake.

Peter was on his way to kill Gerard with information that Stiles had collected.

Shivering, he turned away from the window.

Well, that just made it more real, didn’t it?

It was one thing to plan a murder, he realized, to intend to kill somebody, but it was quite another to be an actual accomplice and enabler. Because that’s what he was. An accomplice. If his dad were to investigate the death of Gerard Argent, Stiles could go to jail.

Maybe.

He was glad that Peter was apparently willing to help him. The wolf was nothing if not thorough when killing folks. With Peter on the case, shit would definitely get done. And Stiles might not even have to get his hands dirty.

The only thing he regretted was that he would not be able to kill Ms. Blake himself, that the Darach would never come to realize what a big mistake it had been to mess with him, to threaten his family, regretted that he couldn’t get revenge for Heather, for Tara.

And yet...

He felt lighter, now. Because he didn’t have to do this alone, protect his pack all by himself. He had the help of an adult, a werewolf.

Stiles let his gaze wander once more to the flip chart, lingering on Jennifer Blake’s photo.

Quickly coming to a decision, he tore it off and stuffed it into his desk drawer to be disposed off later.

And then there were two.


	2. Gerard Argent

Stiles had barely slept for five hours before a text message woke him from an uneasy sleep. He couldn’t remember what he had dreamed about, but it left a disquieting sensation ghosting over his skin that felt like the touch of trailing fingers on his spine, his neck, his wrists.

Disoriented, he stared at the ceiling for a few moments before blindly reaching for his phone and nearly knocking _Paper Towns_ off his bedside table. He’d hardly managed to read more than two pages last night, before his concentration had scattered and he’d just gone to sleep. Well, tossing and turning, and then, finally, after what had seemed like excruciating hours, sleep.

He thumbed at the screen of his phone and flinched at the sudden light emanating from it, squeezing his eyes shut in the hope of reducing the pain. It never worked.

Slowly Stiles became accustomed to the artificially white glare and with a grimace he eventually managed to open the text just as another one made it noisily into his inbox.

They were both from Peter.

A long-suffering sigh escaped him as he quickly read both of the messages.

_Your information is outdated. No one here._

And:

_Find him quickly._

Well, fuck.

Stiles let his eyes wander to the window and stared at the lazily dawning sky behind the thin pane of glass.

So Gerard wasn’t at the motel anymore. The hunters had probably moved him somewhere else after Scott’s visit.

It would take some time to track him down, to get the information he needed. His dad might finally grow suspicious of his inquiries if he wasn’t already.

Stiles bit his lip so hard it hurt and rubbed his eyes.

After Peter had climbed out of his room, Stiles had hoped that he wouldn’t have to deal with Gerard anymore. While he absolutely _needed_ the psychotic hunter to be out of commission, the man was still the one person that had managed to make him feel utterly weak. Dealing with Gerard would never be easy for him, because he lacked the rage he needed to overcome the memorized fear that always threatened to paralyze him when he thought of the senior hunter. A rage he only felt when it came to Jennifer Blake.

There was one other thing he could try before he once again abused police resources.

Stiles furiously rubbed a hand over his face.

He'd really hoped to avoid unnecessary stopovers.

Eh, well, couldn’t be helped.

Looking out of the window, however, made it clear that it was far too early on a Sunday morning to be bothering folks, so he decided to take a quick shower and choke down some breakfast first. Use the time to gather his wits about him, channel his inner bad cop, maybe.

With one last sigh he rolled out of bed and dragged himself into the bathroom down the hall.

*

Stiles was able to occupy himself till half past eight before he just couldn’t stay in the house any longer. He’d spent his morning reading a couple of chapters of  _The Sun Also Rises_ for school, and had even done a bit of cleaning, but alas, he could only distract himself from planning and executing (ha!) murder for so long.

Glad that his dad was still fast asleep, Stiles quietly left the house and climbed into his Jeep. Roscoe wouldn’t start on the first try, nor the second, but eventually Stiles was able to leave the driveway. Rolling quietly through the neighborhood, it took some time to get to his destination, but it wasn’t as if he needed to hurry and he arrived at the Argent residence around nine A.M.

Like always, his timing was absolutely impeccable, because Chris Argent was just about to get into his own car that was parked in front of the apartment building rather than the accompanying parking lot.

Haphazardly parking across the street, Stiles catapulted himself out of Jeep and basically flew to the other side of the road.

“Mr. Argent,” he greeted enthusiastically just as the man opened the driver’s door. “Exactly the man I wanted to see!”

When Chris Argent turned around to face him, he wore his default sceptically annoyed expression and gave him a reluctant once-over.

“Stiles,” the hunter drawled warily.

“I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll keep this short,” Stiles reassured with a broad grin that was utterly fake. Chris could probably tell, if the twitching eyebrow was anything to go by.

“I’d appreciate that.”

“So, a little birdie told me that your sweet old father switched motels.”

Stiles did his best to observe the other man’s expression very carefully, but other then clenching his jaw, Chris remained unreadable. The only emotion Stiles could read on his face was the dislike at having to deal with Stiles, an emotion that Chris apparently didn't want to hide from him.

“Is that so?”

“Yup,” Stiles confirmed and bobbed his head animatedly up and down. “I’d like to know where you moved him to.”

Chris didn’t answer right away, but took his time observing Stiles in return.

Stiles tensed and squared his jaw in defiance. He needed the man to understand that he wasn’t dicking around here.

“Are you sure you want to go down that road?” the hunter asked, after a couple of long seconds had trickled by.

“I don’t think I’ll have nightmares from this one.”

Chris appraised him critically for another drawn-out moment, before he sighed in a world-weary way that made Stiles question his own choices for a brief, intense second. Both of them knew that Gerard was too dangerous to be left alive, and while Chris appeared to be unable to kill the man himself (something Stiles absolutely understood — he would never be able to kill his own father either), he had already made it clear that he wasn’t exactly standing in the way of other people trying to finish the job.

Chris fished a pen and a piece of paper out of the inner pocket of his jacket. Propping the paper against the roof of his car he quickly scribbled down an address and handed it to Stiles.

Stiles nodded in thanks, because seriously, vocalizing his appreciation at being handed the means to kill the man’s father seemed wrong, even in his new state of moral ambiguity.

Chris ignored the nod and got into his car without another word, giving Stiles just enough time to step back before the hunter pulled away from the curb and left him there, standing in the middle of the empty street in front of the Argent’s apartment building.

Shivering a little, he got back behind the wheel of his car and just sat there for a little while. Then, he got out his phone and texted Peter the address, hoping that that was it. Stiles had done his part, now it was up to Peter to see it through. Right?

He should have known right away that it could never be this easy.

*

It was already comfortably dark outside when he received another text.

_Wear something disposable. We’re already late._

Feeling mutinous, he wondered briefly if he should text back a deliberately obtuse ‘late for what’, and looked down at the clothes he was currently wearing. Random t-shirt, worn jeans (not his favorite), his red hoodie. With a very strong inkling where this was going, he pulled off the latter and dug a random jacket out of his closet that he never wore.

An impatient honk from outside confirmed his suspicions.

Swearing under his breath, he grabbed his keys, his phone (turning off the GPS, just in case) and stumbled down the stairs. After slipping into his sneakers and making sure all the lights were off Stiles left the house, carefully locking up behind him, and already spotted Peter’s Volvo parked a few yards away from the driveway.

Jogging across the lawn, he quickly got into the passenger seat and Peter drove off, not even waiting for him to fasten his seat-belt.

“I hope you are aware that I have nosy neighbors,” Stiles said in lieu of a simple ‘hello’, because the two of them just didn’t do simple. “And me getting into the car of an older dude will definitely get back to my dad.”

“Keeps life interesting,” Peter replied with a slow smirk tugging on his lips as he shifted gears and turned a sharp right at the next intersection.

Stiles knew that they were taking the fastest route out of Beacon Hills, a route that would eventually lead them to Gerard Argent.

He shifted in his seat a little and tried getting more comfortable for the ride. After a few tense moments he started fiddling with the radio. Peter, surprisingly, didn’t slap his hand away like he’d expected.

“You couldn’t have done this by yourself?”

“Stop whining,” the wolf drawled and rolled his eyes at the station Stiles picked. “It is high time you learned how to do this.”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Is it?”

He tried not to think too much about what Peter was implying. But he had irrefutably opened this particular can of worms and the zombie wolf was always happy to talk murder and mayhem.

“Hmm, yes,” Peter agreed and guided the car through a particularly quiet neighborhood. “Scott is far too idealistic. If he ever wants to have a stable pack he will need somebody to do the dirty work for him. Possibly without him knowing about it.”

Stiles suppressed a shiver, knowing deep down that Peter was right. Scott would never condone what they were currently up to, even though Stiles felt in his bones that Gerard needed to be eliminated. And even if Scott felt the same, he would never kill the hunter. Nor have him killed. The knowledge of having sentenced somebody to death alone would be Scott’s undoing and he would doubt himself until he was unable to make decisions anymore. He would never be able to make a good Alpha, the sort of Alpha that this town sorely needed.

“And you, my dear boy,” Peter continued after switching lanes, “may just be what our little Scott needs.”

“You just like to ruin people,” he grumbled, but didn’t refute what Peter had said.

“Oh, Stiles,” Peter laughed, his amusement a sharp instrument that threatened to cut anyone who got too close. “You have already ruined yourself, that’s the beauty of it.”

The rest of the car ride was spent in silence, because Stiles didn’t want to acknowledge the truth of Peter’s statement. And he also didn’t want to show weakness by insisting that it was the Nemeton’s fault and not his own. So he remained silent and listened to the generic pop-songs filtering through the speakers, and Peter thankfully left him to his own thoughts, not calling him out on his petty behavior.

When they reached the motel — a badly lit, unwelcoming establishment half an hour outside of Beacon Hills, off the main roads and partly into the woods — Stiles was ready to murder somebody. Thankfully, that was on the agenda.

Peter parked the car down the road behind conveniently planted shrubbery. It would be best if the Volvo wasn’t spotted at the scene of the crime.

“You stay here,” Peter told him curtly after they had gotten out of the car. “I’ll make sure that none of Argent’s hunters will disturb our evening’s entertainment.”

Stiles silently glared at Peter — much to the older man’s amusement — but didn’t stop him.

The wolf walked off, leaving Stiles behind, and the teenager could easily imagine the man prowling the perimeter, stealthily picking off one hunter after the other like a ninja. Peter might even enjoy himself a little and draw unnecessary blood, ripping throats instead of just breaking necks—taking revenge for all the times he’d ever been hunted.

Yes, it was easy to imagine Peter killing these faceless men, but Stiles couldn’t bring himself to care too much. They were _Gerard’s_ men after all.

So he waited by the car, fidgeting more and more the longer Peter was gone until eventually he was ready to beat himself unconscious with his own keys because he couldn’t bear the thought of somebody (his _dad_ ) connecting him to what was about to happen, to what was _already_ happening, and if Peter didn’t return soon, he’d have a heart attack before they even set foot in the motel.

When Peter did finally return, Stiles decided not to comment on the blood staining the man’s hands. Soon enough he might have some on his own.

“Come on,” Peter said, “We don’t have any time to waste.”

Stiles followed and they walked along the side of the road until they reached the motel, and Stiles emphatically tried not to ask how many hunters Peter had killed tonight. Less hunters meant less people who would try to kill his friends. He didn’t have to be happy, but he wouldn’t cry about it either.

“No cameras,” the werewolf said as they walked across the silent parking lot. “I already checked.”

There were only three cars in the lot, and the whole place seemed to be eerily deserted. Much like _Glen Capri_ had been, if he came to think of it, and it sent a feeling of unease trickling down his spine.

At least now he had a werewolf by his side who was capable of using his claws and who had some experience in these sort of undertakings. He felt strangely safe with Peter, even though he knew that trusting the man would probably be his downfall.

“What about noise,” Stiles asked under his breath as they approached one of the doors at the far left of the building.

“We’ll have to gag him,” Peter replied callously. “The receptionist is out cold. Too much alcohol I presume. He won’t give us any trouble.”

Stiles suppressed a relieved sigh. At least Peter hadn’t killed innocent bystanders tonight. That kind of thing he wouldn't have been able to reconcile with his already sketchy moral values. Or, well, Scott’s moral values, which Stiles tried to follow most of the time.

Peter didn’t even pause at the door that seemed to lead to Gerard Argent; he just waltzed right in like he owned the place.

Stiles faltered only a little in his steps, now that he was seconds away from meeting the man of his nightmares.

“ _What--_ ”

Stiles’ heart beat a wild untamed tattoo against his ribcage at the sound of _his_ voice, and a cold shiver ran through the entire length of his body.

So far, Peter was pretty much blocking his view, but the knowledge alone that Gerard Argent was only a couple of feet away made cold sweat break out all over his skin.

“Don’t bother screaming,” Peter drawled lazily, still a solid wall between Stiles and Argent. “Your hunters are... incapacitated.”

“Hale,” the old man acknowledged darkly, his voice a scratchy ruin of its former thundering glory.

Peter stepped further into the motel room and out of Stiles’ direct line of sight.

Gerard was unable to hide the sudden surprise dusting his wrinkled features.

“Mr. Stilinski -  _you_ I have not expected.”

His speech was a string of faltering sounds that dragged out his name until it could stretch no further.

Stiles’ mind quickly flashed back to the taste of blood clinging to his tongue and electricity charging through the air. He swallowed thickly.

“Be a pet and close the door,” Peter commented lightheartedly and Stiles couldn’t help but glare at the wolf.

“Fuck you,” he hissed, but closed the door anyway.

Peter smirked in satisfaction.

A nasty cough interrupted them and Stiles watched in horrified fascination as black goo dribbled down the old hunter’s chin. Shaky hands dabbed it away with a crumpled and stained tissue.

“You have probably guessed why we are here,” Peter said slowly, sounding for all intents and purposes bored out of his mind.

This punched a slightly unhinged laugh out of the old man, resulting in another coughing fit that left him doubled over in his wheelchair.

“The psychotic werewolf and the human sidekick,” Gerard wheezed breathlessly. “Come to avenge their fallen pack mates!”

A spark of anger suddenly coursed through Stiles, pushing away his fear.

“Can we get on with it?”

“Certainly,” the wolf agreed, before stepping behind the hunter and expertly gagging him with a cloth he procured from one of his pockets — quickly and efficiently.

Another couch wracked the hunter’s body, now that his steady air supply was partially blocked.

Staring at this man who had terrorized them for months, who had tortured them, threatened and hunted them, Stiles felt his fear and anger turn into hatred. Hatred for making him feel weak, useless, expendable. Hatred for driving it home that he couldn’t protect himself, that he was a liability for people to use and hurt his pack, his brother.

So when Peter raised his arm to strike, Stiles found himself holding him back.

“Wait,” he said, his voice hoarse. “There is something I owe him first.”

Curious, Peter stepped back, his eyes dark with sharp speculation.

Stiles felt oddly detached from himself as he moved closer, leaning down a little to be more at eye level with Gerard.

Looking this man straight in the eye — seeing the cold defiance reflected there — sent a perverse thrill through his body. His pulse quickened in anticipation as he curled his right hand into a fist.

“Remember that time you kidnapped me?” he asked in a voice that didn’t seem to belong to him anymore.

Gerard, predictably, didn’t even blink.

“Yeah,” Stiles continued, “me too.”

Ignoring Peter who had started to circle them with slow steps, Stiles pulled back his arm and, without further hesitation, punched Gerard squarely in the face.

His knuckles connect with brittle cheekbones, sending the man’s head flying backwards, a wheezing groan barely filtering through bundled-up fabric.

The smacking sound of his punch echoed sharply through the stillness of the motel room.

It was an exhilarating sigh, turning the tables like that, and even though the impact had hurt, Stiles couldn’t help but lift his arm once more and gather all of his strength to hit again.

And again.

And again.

Red, dripping fury blinded his vision. He was in a frenzy, now, could barely make out anything but the man he was crouched over, the sound of connecting his fist with the man’s face, _over and over again_ , feral rage pouring out of him, fueling his need to hurt, to hurt like  _he’d_ been hurt, to hurt like  _his pack_ had been hurt.

The pain in his knuckles had numbed by the time a hand wrapped firmly around his wrist.

Instinctively straining against the grip holding him back, Stiles looked away from his victim with a snarl curling his lips.

When he met Peter’s collected gaze, his insanity receded somewhat.

“That’s enough,” the wolf said gently and used his supernatural strength to guide Stiles away from the hunter.

Slowly surfacing from the depths of his hatred, Stiles blinked confusedly at Peter. But the wolf just took hold of the back of his neck and squeezed it in quiet reassurance.

The sudden warmth against his clammy skin snapped him out of this red haze completely.

He felt forlorn, now, his abused knuckles pounding in time with his heartbeat. The only thing that kept him from bursting into tiny little jagged shards of glass was Peter’s steady gaze staring unwaveringly at him.

“You did good,” the wolf told him with a slight smile, “let me do the rest so we can get out of here.”

Peter squeezed his neck one more time before letting go and turning his attention to the barely conscious hunter.

Stiles was transfixed and couldn’t have looked away even if he'd wanted to.

But no, he needed to see this end, needed to see the end of Gerard Argent, needed to __see__ in order to truly believe.

The hunter’s face was swollen and bruised, his mouth and nose covered in smears of bright red blood and speckled with black. Argent’s chest was heaving with rattling gasps, his head hanging back as if his neck was no longer strong enough to support its weight.

 _I did that_ , Stiles thought numbly,  _I did that_.

Peter encircled the old man, drinking in Stiles’ handiwork with approval coloring his expression — walked around his pray until he came to halt right in front of the hunter.

“I’ve waited a long time to do this.”

A gurgling cough escaped Argent’s abused throat.

The wolf flexed his right hand, the tips of his fingers morphing into sharp claws.

For a moment Stiles was so distracted by Peter’s absolute control over his body — his left hand remained completely unchanged — that he almost missed the crucial strike. It happened so fast — claws glinting in the dim light, a blur of movement, the spray of blood.

A strange ripping sound filled the silence.

It was a displaced sound, reaching his ears only when his eyes had already perceived the action; making him doubt it had happened for a second, but no, the gurgling and gushing of blood was real.

The numbing certainty of death spread through his veins, chilling him all the way down to his fingertips, his toes.

Stiles watched the crimson life force spurt out of Gerard’s ripped throat, watched the last uncontrollable spams jerk his body like rag doll, watched as blood soaked clothes and dripped down to the floor, forming a rapidly growing puddle on the carpet.

Finally, Gerard was dead.

For a while all they could hear was the steady dripping sound of blood.

Nausea started to well up in Stiles as the overpowering scent of death clogged his nose and coated the back of his throat.

He gagged.

It didn’t help.

Peter stepped back to survey the scene, his claws still dripping.

“You know what to do,” the wolf growled almost flippantly.

Stiles swallowed thickly, his mind racing.

Then, he connected the dots.

Yes, he knew what to do.

With shaky legs he knelt down and tried to scrape up some determination.

For a brief moment he hesitated, but then he leaned forward and dragged his hand through the puddle of Gerard’s blood. Feeling his own pulse in the very tips of his fingers, he slowly pulled them across the carpet in ever-growing circles, painting a spiral at the feet of the corpse. When it was big enough, Stiles sat back and tried his best not to choke on the overwhelming odor of blood clogging his nose.

Peter made an approving noise deep down in his throat and stepped closer to the body, careful not to disturb the newly-drawn symbol of revenge. The wolf dipped his now-human fingernails into the blood that sluggishly trickled out of the slit throat and dragged them almost gently across Gerard’s face without breaking the skin, creating the illusion of claw marks.

“Why did you do that,” Stiles couldn’t help but ask once the wolf was done, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.

Peter stepped into the adjacent bathroom and Stiles listened to the sounds of running water, of Peter washing his hands.

He looked down at his own hands resting lightly in his lap, one of them with smarting knuckles and red-stained fingers.

When Peter returned to his side, he looked as composed and put-together as always.

“It’s the trademark sign of a radical group of werewolf,” the wolf explained. “It might set the hunters on the wrong track. If they even investigate. Argent had many enemies among my kind.”

“Radical werewolves,” Stiles asked hollowly, trying to wrap his head around the foreign-sounding concept.

“There is still a lot that you have to learn.”

After the night he’d had, Stiles just didn’t care enough at that moment to inquire further. Instead he stared at the slowly drying spiral until the image had burned itself into his mind.

Then he noticed that the dripping of blood had slowed down.

Still sitting on his heels on the floor, he looked up at Peter and caught the wolf watching him with an unreadable expression on his handsome face.

“What now,” he asked and nodded his head in the direction of Gerard’s body.

“Now you wash your hands.”

Peter pulled Stiles unceremoniously to his feet, pushing him toward the bathroom.

Stiles complied.

He flinched when the cold spray of water hit his skin and he scrubbed until the blood was completely gone from underneath his fingernails. He avoided looking at his own reflection in the mirror and left the bathroom as quickly as he could.

When he returned to the main room, Peter was already waiting by the door.

“Shouldn’t we actually burn the body instead, though?” he asked, hesitating and taking one more look at the mess.

Peter made a slightly amused sound at the back of his throat, and turned to walk out of the motel room.

“The Argents won’t report this.”

Stiles frowned and followed the werewolf, cleaning the door handle just in case. He did not need his prints at the scene of a murder and really hoped he hadn’t shed like a dog while they’d been in there. He should have worn at least gloves or something.  _Stupid_ , he thought as he hurried after Peter.

The drive back home was spent in silence. Stiles wasn’t exactly in the mood to talk and certainly didn’t trust Peter enough to confide in him.

When they reached Beacon Hills, it started to hit him what they had done — but not in a way he would have expected.

Gerard was gone.

The hunter was no longer a danger to Stiles and the pack, would not come back bigger and stronger only to hurt and kill them all, was no longer able to cause any pain.

Dizzyingly lighthearted all of a sudden, Stiles realized for the first time how worried he’d actually been, how scared. Now that the cause of his fear was gone, it left his mind reeling.

They parked across the street and when they saw that the Sheriff’s cruiser wasn’t in the driveway, Peter accompanied him inside.

Stiles was way beyond asking what the wolf wanted from him now, just staggered upstairs with the older man close on his heels. When they finally reached his room, Stiles turned around with a questioning look washing over his features, not bothering to turn on the lights.

“Give me your clothes,” the wolf prompted calmly, “just in case.”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Pervert,” he muttered, already anticipating Peter’s answering leer.

He quickly stripped out of his jacket and jeans, both of which had gotten some blood on them, and handed them to Peter, who watched him with a predatory smirk.

“Your shirt, too.”

Their eyes met in the darkness and Stiles’ pulse quickened. The situation was turning into something unforeseen, something that stole his breath, something that had only been hinted at before, sometimes, when it had been just the two of them working side by side, either by force or voluntary.

With slightly trembling hands he took off his shirt, aware of Peter’s watchful gaze traveling over his exposed skin, and handed it over, too.

For a moment, both of them stood completely still.

“I’ll be seeing you,” Peter said quietly, and left.

Dressed in nothing but his socks and boxer shorts, Stiles stared after the man and shivered.

*

That night he  _did_ have nightmares, but none of them featured the murder of Gerard Argent.

 


	3. Deucalion I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to [Mar](http://bxdcubes.tumblr.com), [Sydney](http://sydbull.tumblr.com) and [BethBobby](http://ghostlywhitedirewolf.tumblr.com/) who all proofread this for me, you're the best, seriously! <3

It was still dark when he was violently startled into wakefulness, feeling like he had sprinted from one world into the next. His lungs rattled uneasily as he tried to catch his breath and his shirt was clinging awkwardly to his skin covered in cold sweat.

Stiles wasn’t quite able to shake off the feeling of dread that had settled deep in his stomach. For the second night in a row (or third? Fourth? Who knew?) he hadn’t slept well and it was beginning to show.

His dreams had been plagued by disturbing images – Stiles running through a packed, maze-like ossuary, a final resting place for human skeletons, and wherever he looked, empty eye sockets followed his every move; Stiles tripping and falling head first in a pile of neatly stacked ribcages, the crunching sound of breaking bones disturbing him to the core.

Even now, watchful shadows lingered at the edge of his awareness and Stiles didn’t know whether they were a figment of his imagination or the next supernatural threat he would need to confront.

His limbs trembled as he skidded as far away from the edge of his mattress as possible.

Stiles wasn’t a child anymore, but in that very moment the vast space underneath his bed held possible horrors he wasn’t ready to think about.

The wild beating in his chest failed to abate and so he kept vigil until the first rays of sunshine made it through his bedroom window. He refused to close his eyes and give the monsters of his nightmares an advantage over him.

The dawning of a new day brought with it a deceptive kind of security; Stiles knew now that monsters existed and that he was never truly safe no matter what time of day it was; but Peter had showed him that monsters can be killed.

That needed to be enough to carry him over from one fleeting day to the next.

*

By the time his dad woke up, Stiles had already downed two mugs of black coffee and eaten three pancakes. The rest he stacked onto a plate for the sheriff, who eyed him with a mix of suspicion and mild concern as soon as he made his way down the stairs.

“Morning, pops!” he chirped, a little too hyper for 6.30am on a Monday.

“How long have you been up?” his dad asked as he poured himself some coffee, too.

“Eh,” he began, but didn’t quite know what to say without incriminating himself. “Is that a trick question?”

"Well, _now_ it is.”

His dad took a huge bite of his surprise breakfast. As soon as his brain registered the taste, however, a slight grimace flittered across his face.

The sheriff paused his chewing and glanced skeptically down on his pancakes.

Stiles fell into the seat across from his dad. “I used rice milk. Be glad you don’t take milk in your coffee – it’s terrible.”

“I can taste that,” his dad replied sarcastically around the mouthful of food.

Stiles rolled his eyes and started bouncing his leg.

“The pancakes aren’t that different.”

His dad swallowed his food and washed it down with a big gulp of coffee.

“Are you going to tell me what’s up?” the older man asked and stared down onto his plate, contemplating whether or not to take another bite. “Or do you want me to make an educated guess?”

The bouncing of Stiles’ leg increased in speed.

He was a terrible liar when he didn’t get enough sleep – something that seemed to be the norm these days. But he couldn’t tell his dad that he had helped kill Gerard Argent not even twelve hours ago, because he wasn’t ready to face his judgement.

“Nothing, just… couldn’t sleep.”

His dad nodded, and started eating again.

Stiles brushed the tip of his index finger along the rim of his mug – round and round and round. His gaze flickered back and forth between his dad’s food and his own hands; he couldn’t decide whether he should sit here or go upstairs. This might be the last time they had breakfast together. By tonight he could be in jail.

What if Peter had been horribly wrong in assuming that they’d get away clean?

The hunters might not have reported Gerard’s murder, but Peter had killed more than one person last night. Who was to say that the hunters didn’t want to fuck them up in return? Hiding from the police never did anyone any good.

“Nightmares?” his dad asked after a while, and bravely worked his way through the too-healthy stack of pancakes.

“Yeah,” he agreed easily enough.

Then he couldn’t stand it anymore.

He got up and put his dirty mug into the sink.

“Gotta get ready for school.”

The sheriff watched him sharply as he ambled around the table and out of the kitchen. Neither of them said another word.

Swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat, Stiles bounded up the stairs.

*

School was… difficult.

Stiles was barely able to concentrate and kept glancing at the doors of whichever classroom he was in, half expecting his dad to appear and lead him away in cuffs.

Yesterday he’d been so sure he was doing the right thing (if not in general then for his friends), had felt so liberated afterwards – and that hadn’t disappeared, not completely.

Gerard Argent was gone.

A laugh bubbled up inside of him, but he managed to swallow it down before it could escape. He couldn’t just start laughing in the middle of US History.

Another quick glance toward the door confirmed that the hallway behind the small glass pane was still sheriff-free.

When he turned his attention back to his immediate surroundings, he noticed that Scott was watching him with a frown.

*

“...some COD after school?”

The cafeteria was filled with too loud and too energetic teenagers who didn’t know that their world was made up of blood and bones, and the screams of their tortured classmates.

“...Isaac will be at Derek’s so we’d have the place..."

Stiles just wanted them all to shut up.

“...Stiles?”

His head snapped up at the sound of his name.

“What?”

“You okay?” Scott asked, concern dripping from every word. “You seem a little off today.”

Suddenly, Allison fell onto the bench next to him with an exhausted sigh and flashed him and Scott a quick, forced smile.

Yeah, he thought, none of them were doing so great.

“I’m fine, Scotty,” he mumbled and stuffed a chicken nugget into his mouth, barely tasting it as he chewed. Maybe he should listen in on the police frequency after school, just to make sure that no one was reporting the bodies.

“So,” Scott tried again after a while. “My place after school?”

His mind scrambled to find an excuse that would work on a werewolf who could hear when he was lying.

“Sorry, dude,” he started to say, grasping at straws, but then he spotted two figures hovering at the edge of his vision, creeping closer.

It was the twins, both carrying trays loaded with food, and approaching their table as if they planned on joining them.

Over his dead, rotten body.

“You two,” he said before they could get too close, his voice sharp in a way he didn’t recognize. “Scram.”

For a brief moment the twins looked ready to attack, or wolf out right there, but then one of them – Ethan, Stiles presumed – squeezed the other one’s shoulder.

“Come on,” probably-Ethan said, and after sharing a long, pregnant look with Scott, they walked away from their table.

_Weird_.

Allison bumped her knee into his thigh in silent appreciation and he smiled to himself, right up until Scott addressed them with his Serious Face.

“Guys, we need to talk.”

*

They met under the bleachers after school.

Stiles had his hands buried deep in his jeans and the hood drawn protectively around his face. He didn’t know what it was about hoodies, but they made him feel safe, less exposed.

“Are we having a secret board meeting?” he asked as soon as Allison joined them.

The huntress didn’t look like she wanted to be here, and Stiles could relate; he would have dragged his feet, too, if he hadn’t shared last period with Scott.

He had an inkling where this was going, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“I’m meeting Lydia in an hour,” Allison said, partly turned away from them and observing the empty lacrosse field.

Scott sighed.

“Look,” he began, already sounding disappointed in them. “I know we’ve had our differences with the twins.”

Stiles couldn’t help but mouth ‘differences’ to himself, his facial expression morphing into one of scornful disbelief.

“We had more than just _differences_ ,” he blurted out, dragging his hands out of his pockets to have them free for – he didn’t know what. Flail, maybe.

“Yes,” Scott agreed. “But they are sorry for what they did.”

Allison snorted.

“Dude, _no_ ,” Stiles hissed.

Allison crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“I’m with Stiles on this one.”

“ _Guys_ ,” the werewolf returned, sounding scandalized. “Did you forget what they told us about their past? Kali pretty much forced them to do all those things!”

“Yeah, I remember their sob story,” Stiles allowed. “I still don’t want them in the pack.”

“They deserve a second chance!”

Stiles felt his blood start to boil and he had to clench his hands until his blunt fingernails were digging painfully into his palms. This was quickly getting out of hand.

Scott and Stiles had argued before, sure, but never like this, never with a nasty edge to their words.

“They killed Erica and Boyd,” Stiles said quietly.

“Kali did that,” Scott replied.

Hearing this particular line of argumentation was the last straw, and, like flipping a switch, Stiles exploded in Scott’s face. He couldn’t take this, not from his best friend, not today.

“ _Over my dead body, Scott!_ ”

Scott’s eyes flashed red.

“I make the decisions here, okay? I’m the Alpha!”

Allison stepped closer, her expression dangerously unhinged.

A cold shiver ran down Stiles’ spine.

“If you let the twins join the pack,” she said, voice deceptively calm. “Then I will trap them in a circle of mountain ash and put an arrow between their eyes.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed hoarsely.

The two of them held Scott’s furious gaze until the red around his pupils started to recede.

“They promised to behave themselves,” the wolf argued, but his shoulders slumped in tired defeat. “You’ll see.”

“I doubt that,” Allison hissed, turned on her heels and strode away.

*

On the way to his Jeep, an idea started to solidify in Stiles’ mind.

He fished out his phone and quickly sent off a text.

_mountain ash circle?_

And then: _plus arrow_

His steps slowed down a fraction as he continued to tap out another message.

_maybe wolfsbane_

*

When he got home, Peter was already waiting for him in his bedroom.

Stiles let himself into the house and greeted his dad, who was back from work early for once. They chatted a little about the sheriff’s latest case until his dad pointedly told him that he didn’t have any news on Deucalion.

At this rate they would never find the Alpha.

Dragging himself upstairs and into his sanctuary, he found the wolf comfortably lounging in his desk chair, leafing through a book on protection spells that Stiles had forgotten to put away. He didn’t look up when Stiles came in and closed the door, simply kept on reading instead.

Stiles flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes.

What a day.

He stretched until his joints popped and his mind drifted a little until he started thinking about Allison’s remarks and Scott’s ego trip and how Stiles had lost it, too, and wondered whether they would ever be okay again.

“Using mountain ash to trap Deucalion is a good plan,” Peter commented suddenly, finally referring to the reason he was in Stiles’ room this time. “Simple yet effective.”

Stiles opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows so he could look at the wolf more easily. There was something that had been bugging him ever since he’d come up with this plan.

“Do you think I’m powerful enough to trap an Alpha?”

Scott had told him how he had been able to break Ms. Blake’s circle and Stiles was only beginning to access his new powers, he had not nearly as much power as the Darach.

“Powerful, yes,” the wolf replied with an arrogant tilt to his voice.

“But?” Stiles asked, ready to argue.

“If we hope to outsmart an Alpha you need to learn how to mask your heartbeat and breathing, your scent as well as your footsteps.”

Stiles frowned and mulled it over in his head.

He had to admit that the prospect of being able to do all that was intriguing. Even though he had no clue how to acquire those skills.

“We can only succeed if he doesn’t expect two assailants,” Peter continued and Stiles agreed with him. Without the element of surprise, they would never be able to take down Deucalion. “Even so we might only be fooling ourselves.”

Stiles snorted at that.

“Don’t be so pessimistic, dude.”

He got off his bed and stretched some more, intimately aware that Peter’s eyes lazily tracked his movements.

“Got any tips how to mask my heartbeat and stuff?”

“Eloquent as ever,” the wolf quipped with a smirk, but got up, too.

“We have to be quiet, my dad’s downstairs.”

“I’m aware, thank you.”

Ah, how he had missed the acerbic brand of sarcasm that apparently ran in the Hale family.

Impatiently, Stiles waved his hand through the air.

“So, the masking of my heartbeat...”

Peter suddenly invaded his personal space and grabbed his wrist.

Stiles flinched in surprise.

“ _Dude,_ ” he hissed.

With one flowing move of his arm, the wolf dragged Stiles’ palm upwards until it was splayed against his chest. There was an intense expression on his face, one Stiles had seen before – an expression that suggested Peter was looking right through reality and into the abyss.

Stiles swallowed nervously and met Peter’s haunting gaze.

“You possess magic, Stiles,” Peter whispered, his voice like silk, and his eyes flickered back and forth as if he were able to see specks of light dancing along the contour of Stiles’ face. “Feel it. _Use_ it.”

Trying to escape Peter’s captivating stare, he leaned forward and dropped his forehead onto the man’s shoulder. A shaky breath made it past his trembling lips. What was happening?

It was difficult to recall what it had felt like to manipulate a handful of mountain ash, whether he had felt anything at all.

Deaton hadn’t called it magic.

In fact, Deaton had said very little about the entire affair.

Up until now Stiles had believed that every human was able to do what he had done, but he wasn’t so sure anymore.

In the silence of his room, he listened to the slow inhales and exhales of Peter’s breathing, felt the rising and falling chest against his palm. He huddled against Peter’s neck and listened more closely, listened for the pulse underneath hot skin, tried not to get distracted by the arm that sneaked around him, the hand that settled low on his back.

For a while, Stiles simply imitated what he was hearing, breathed in time with Peter, willing his heartbeat to follow suit.

“Believe, Stiles,” Peter urged him quietly.

And finally – Stiles did.

It was an overwhelming rush, a roar in his ear, a burning sensation running through his veins.

The werewolf squeezed his wrist and his whole body twitched.

He believed, believed until a confusing flood of images attacked his mind.

Gasping, he reared back, detained from stumbling by the hand on his lower back that steadied him and the strong grip around his wrist. His fingers spasmed uncontrollably against Peter’s chest.

“What happened,” the wolf growled in alarm. “What did you see?”

Wide-eyed, Stiles clung to these words, trying to return to the here and now.

“ _What did you see?_ ”

“I-it was,” Stiles stammered shakily, “your bloodstream... I think?”

Surprise flashed across Peter’s face and Stiles couldn’t help but laugh – it came out a little hysterical but he couldn’t help it, for he was more disturbed by what he had seen than he cared to admit.

The wolf squeezed his wrist.

“Maybe believe a little less vehemently?”

“Yeah,” he agreed like that statement made any sense.

He leaned in close again until his nose was pressed into the fabric of Peter’s v-neck.

This time it was easier to access this space within himself that housed his magic. He listened to the ebb and flow of the wolf’s breathing and pictured how Peter’s lungs contracted and expanded, pictured his own lungs following suit, until both images overlapped before his mind’s eye like semi-transparent layers in photoshop.

He listened to the steady drum of Peter’s heartbeat, blocking out all other sound until the thrumming was overwhelmingly loud in his ears – until he _felt_ the sound in his own chest.

It felt like a lock snapping into place, like a circuit closing, and from one moment to the next, the two of them were connected.

Stiles had never been so close to anyone as he was in that moment. One single heartbeat in their chests, one breath flowing in and out of their lungs. His eyes flickered close and he could still feel Peter, feel his presence like a current running through him, like a pulsing string connecting Peter’s mind and soul to his own.

He opened his eyes again and blinked at the wolf, his vision blurry.

“Was this your plan all along?” he asked with a voice gritty like sandpaper. He was distracted by a strange sort of double vision -- reality layered with magic, something he was sensing rather than seeing.

Peter met his gaze with half-closed eyes.

“Not at all,” the wolf drawled haughtily and Stiles noticed that he was as shaken by their closeness as he was, even if he tried his best to hide it behind a veneer of arrogance.

Was this what pack bonds felt like? No wonder Scott always insisted that Stiles couldn’t understand the connection between wolves. There were simply no words to accurately describe this sensation.

Peter stepped back and let go of him, and Stiles didn’t mind. The empty space between their bodies did nothing to diminish the link.

Their eyes met, and Stiles suddenly understood.

Whatever happened from now on, they were in this together. Whether they liked it or not.


	4. Deucalion II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Mar who gave this a quick read~
> 
> The rest of this story is already written, I just need to edit the hell out of the last couple of chapters. Rest assured that the posting will be way quicker now :D
> 
> A huge thanks to all of you who left me a review, I feel so honored that you read and liked my story, your comments really mean the world to me! <3

A week went by without any sign of Deucalion, then two weeks.

Halloween had passed him by without much fuss. Like he’d expected, none of the pack had been up for any sort of celebration and Stiles had simply holed himself up in his room, shooting zombies on his computer and chugging coke by the gallon.

Peter’s text messages got more frequent and more annoyed as time went on, but it wasn’t exactly easy to track down somebody with the alias of ‘John Doe’, especially if you had to rely on your dad to do most of the searching for you. A dad with a very demanding job that arrested most of his attention 24/7. See what he did there? Yeah, even his puns were getting worse.

It wasn’t _all_ bad, of course. The forced downtime gave him ample time to practice his nifty new magic tricks.

They wouldn’t stand a chance if he didn’t manage to blend his scent with his surroundings.

And Peter, the jerk, kept popping up at very inopportune moment to check up on his progress.

As if he needed the increased probability of heart attacks.

No matter how many times he tried telling Peter to leave him alone, the wolf just wouldn’t listen.

But Stiles had Scott, okay? Scott, who was always scenting the air, face scrunched up in that endearingly confused way of his, whenever Stiles got it right. He might not be _speaking_ to Scott all that much right now, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t secretly use his best friend’s super senses for training purposes.

If he was completely honest, though, it was getting increasingly hard to concentrate on anything, let alone his half-assed magical education that would probably cause him to end up like Willow Rosenberg sooner or later.

Whatever he and Peter had accidentally done, it was slowly driving him _up the wall_.

Because, you see, Peter Hale _was always there_ , hovering at the edge of his awareness. Stiles felt like he was never quite alone even when there was no one in the house with him; he had a constant low level sense of the wolf, of his emotions, his _essence_. There was a thrumming, pulsing bond between them and it scared him shitless.

He was used to being alone; his dad was always at work, and Scott, well. Even before his best friend had started collecting strays left and right he’d been busy at Deaton’s most days after school. So yeah, Stiles was really _really_ used to being alone.

And it had sucked, you know, when he didn’t have anybody to share his day with, when his only social interactions had been faceless people on the Internet, but now...

Stiles felt claustrophobic in his own skin. He didn’t want to be chained to another person like that, to have a constant newsfeed on what they were feeling. The only silver lining was that Peter didn’t exactly broadcast his emotions, so he figured it could be way worse.

He also had to reluctantly concede that it wasn’t all bad.

He _did_ like the security of having somebody _there_ , who would notice when something happened to him, who would react when he called. Somebody finally payed attention to him, and not just because he was the only one there or because he was useful, but by default. (Okay, maybe it was creepy that this person was Peter, and maybe it hadn’t actually happened by choice, but they had been dancing around each other for a long time now. And Stiles couldn’t help but feel a warm glow in his chest whenever he let himself simply bask in the shared connection.)

Just sometimes he wondered how any werewolf could stand being in a pack if it involved bonds like this.

He may also have stopped masturbating, too freaked out that Peter would feel every second of what he was doing.

In any case, he had a feeling that this entire situation would come back to bite him in the ass. (Maybe literally.)

Everything to do with Peter eventually did.

*

Almost three weeks after Peter and Stiles had accidentally forged a bond between them, his connection to the Sheriff’s Department finally payed off.

Stiles was just updating his spreadsheet on creatures that would love to kill them all (thanks to Peter who had verified and/or dispelled a variety myths for him -- the wolf was probably just as bored and restless as Stiles himself), when the Sheriff suddenly appeared in his open doorway, leaning casually against the frame.

Stiles looked up and instantly spotted the manilla folder in his dad’s hands.

“Is that…?” he asked, having eyes only for the folder.

“Got a ping on your John Doe.”

Stiles got up so fast that his desk chair careened backwards and collided noisily with his bed.

“And? Where is he? In a shady motel somewhere? On the road? Where?”

The sheriff shook his head slightly at his son’s antics and reluctantly handed over the folder.

“He rented a cabin in the woods. It’s located a couple of hours outside town.”

Stiles’ eyes widened and he let out an incredulous laugh.

“Seriously? Oh my god, that is _perfect_.”

“Do I even want to know?” the Sheriff asked with a skeptical frown marring his features.

“Probably not.”

“Exactly how illegal is this going to be?”

“Eh…” Stiles tried not to look too guilty, and failed spectacularly. “...very?”

“ _Stiles!_ ”

*

Later that night, after he’d informed Peter, he consulted his mental checklist.

He had enough ground mountain ash wood to trap Deucalion, and Peter had assured him that they would get close enough to get their plan to work. And, Stiles had to admit, he was getting pretty good at hiding his presence from other werewolves. The only thing he wouldn’t be able to mask: his actually freaking body. Also, his footsteps. Because he didn’t know how anybody could overhear his severe case of flailiness, especially in the woods where there were twigs and dried leaves everywhere.

But, he told himself, they finally had a location. It would have to be enough.

All he still needed was an actual weapon.

Worrying his lower lip with his teeth, Stiles rolled over on his bed and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. Hopefully Allison would still be awake.

_need to borrow the deadly thing u keep in ur purse_

He lay back against his pillows and waited for the huntress to reply, swiping his screen whenever it went dark. Several minutes passed and he was almost at the point of just getting up and driving over to her house, when she finally answered.

_tomorrow after school_

Stiles let out an annoyed sigh and threw his phone onto the bed. Dragging a hand through his messy mop of hair, he tried stomping down on his impatience. He had really hoped that he would be able to get that part of the mission out of the way as soon as possible. Tonight, even.

After a moment he conceded that Allison’s suggestion was probably smarter.

Tomorrow being a Friday and all, it was arguably safer to borrow weapons when school let out for the weekend. Knowing Peter, the wolf would want to get a move on the next day, too.

Man, they really had a lot of impatience going around between the two of them, didn’t they.

In any case, this would be over sooner than he had dared hope.

*

School had never been such a drag.

He kept glancing at Allison whenever they happened to be in the same room together, but the dark-haired girl steadfastly ignored him all day. Even lunch didn’t offer any relief because Allison just didn’t show up at the cafeteria. Getting the hint, albeit reluctantly, he didn’t try to track her down.

Instead he all but vibrated out of his chair with nervous energy, prompting Scott to send him worried looks over his mac and cheese. Stiles waved his concerns impatiently away and tapped a random rhythm against the edge of his tray. He hadn’t been able to stomach any of his own lunch so far, and it didn’t look like he would be able to eat until this whole mess was over.

He had tried his best to ignore what lay ahead of him, what he was about to do.

Killing Gerard had been… personal.

To be honest, Gerard had scared him more than any other threat they had ever faced. The man had been cruel and vicious, had tortured teenagers to send a message, had manipulated them all in a way that didn’t sit right with Stiles. Moreover, Gerard had kidnapped him, beaten him up, had managed to turn Allison against them, had used _Scott_ against them...

Ms. Blake, on the other hand, had acted with a certain goal in mind. She had wanted the Alpha Pack dead, and had stopped at nothing to achieve that goal. And while Stiles had decided against giving her the chance to screw with them all over again, especially after coming so close to killing his dad, after killing Heather and Tara, the reason why she had kidnapped and killed all these people was gone.

Gerard would never have stopped.

Going after Deucalion would be different. The Demon Wolf had not posed a threat to him personally. He had taken Scott from him, sure, even if only for a little while, he’d been the Alpha of the pack that had killed Erica and Boyd, had tortured Derek and Cora -- all in all somebody who needed to be stopped.

But Stiles blamed Kali for Erica’s death, and the twins for Boyd’s. And while he wasn’t quite sure what he would be able to do about the twin situation, it _did_ mean that, other than hoping they’d all be safer this way, he had no personal reason to kill Deucalion.

He wondered if it wouldn’t be better to let somebody else handle this, somebody who was trained for this sort of situation.

If not the police, then surely hunters?

He mentally checked himself and grabbed the unopened bottle of water from his tray. Focusing solely on his fingers as he wrenched open the cap, he did his best to shake his unease.

Stiles had already made his decision. There was no need for him to start doubting himself now. He had made a deal with Peter and going back on it would surely end in bloodshed. Moreover, he didn’t exactly trust the hunters to pull it off, and the police couldn’t possibly bring down an Alpha.

Gulping down some water he steeled his reserve.

No matter what it would cost him, he would see Deucalion dead.

*

When the bell finally signaled the end of last period, Stiles threw himself out of the classroom and down the quickly-filling corridors, his nervous energy getting the better of him. Scott trailed more slowly after him, chatting easily with Isaac about their new homework assignment.

On Fridays, Allison was done with school an hour earlier than them, and when Stiles reached the parking lot, he saw that her car was nowhere to be seen. He realized that she must have gone home already, and frowned.

It was certainly better to have illicit meetings somewhere that wasn’t your school’s parking lot, but Stiles had hoped to avoid unnecessary stops. His latest run-in with Chris had made him wary of the Argent’s apartment, but it did seem oddly fitting that he would get a weapon from the building in which Deucalion had lived himself.

He quickly shot a text to Allison ( _on my way now_ ) and waved his goodbye to Scott, before clambering behind the wheel of his beloved Jeep and pulling out of the parking lot with screeching tires.

When he arrived at the building, he parked his car in Chris’ empty spot, happy that he wouldn’t have to interact with the man. It would look very shady indeed, if Chris saw him borrowing weapons from his daughter after having killed the man’s father. The irony of his errant made hysterical laughter bubble up in his throat, but he reigned in his emotions and climbed out of the Jeep.

This was just too weird, even for him. Wouldn’t it be easier to get a weapon from somewhere - anywhere - else?

He sighed, suddenly feeling drained.

Stiles should be worrying about grades and college applications, yet here he was, committing serial murder.

_And protecting your friends_ , a tiny voice whispered at the back of his mind and he latched onto the thought, drawing some strength from the knowledge that, yes, his friends would be a bit safer once the deed was done.

Stiles locked his car and entered the building through the parking lot, riding the elevator upward until he reached the right floor. Hating the horror-movie vibe that empty hallways gave him these days, he briskly walked over to the Argent’s apartment door and knocked, hoping Allison would hurry up.

He strained his ears to hear any sound coming from within.

After a few seconds, Stiles could hear approaching footsteps and waited nervously until the door was unlocked and pulled open. Allison’s facial expression upon seeing him was neutral, a little distant even, but she moved back to let him in without complaint.

“Hi,” he mumbled and stepped over the threshold, feeling like a vampire who needed expressed permission to enter, no matter that he’d already been here a couple of times before. Never just for fun, though, always strictly for business.

“We should go to my room,” Allison told him when he hovered awkwardly in the foyer and lead promptly the way.

He followed her quietly through the apartment, noted in passing the opulent furniture along the way, the expensive decorative pieces, stray framed photographs of happy family moments, Victoria Argent included.

He realized that normally he would have tried to fill the silence with random babble, but things had been strange between him and Allison lately, between them all, really. It didn’t help that he was here to borrow from her arsenal.

Once in her room, Allison turned around to face him and gave him no time to really take in the space she had carved out for herself.

“Remember how you almost shot Scott in the face the last time you touched my crossbow?” Allison snarked and raised an eyebrow in obvious challenge.

“Well,” he muttered slightly taken aback. “I hoped you wouldn’t mention that, actually.”

The dark-haired girl snorted.

“Anything else you need, or just the crossbow?”

“Arrows would be nice? Preferably the lethal kind, good to go a-hunting with and all that.”

Allison rolled her eyes.

“Werewolf hunting?” she asked, and Stiles marveled at the fact that this had become an actual question. Not only were there werewolves, no, but once upon a time there had _only_ been werewolves.

“Yeah.”

She nodded and turned away, walking over to her bulky dresser. She opened the top drawer and got out a crossbow, together with a small case of arrows.

“I don’t actually keep my crossbow in my purse anymore,” she said when she saw his questioning gaze. “These arrows are coated in wolfsbane. It’s strong enough to kill, depending on where you hit them.”

“What do you keep in your purse, then?” he asked distractedly and accepted her offering, mulling the information over in his head.

“Knives.”

“Ah…”

He stared at the crossbow in his hands, hoping he wouldn’t accidentally break it. Finally he looked up and met Allison’s calculating gaze.

“Thank you. You’ll get this back asap.”

He was just about to leave, when she called him back.

“Stiles? Don’t leave any arrows lying around a crime scene.”

Stiles nodded, and quickly left the apartment. He was glad that Allison hadn’t asked who he was hunting. He didn’t actually think that it was because she trusted his judgment and had a distinct suspicion that she simply didn’t care.

There was something darker about her now, and he supposed the same could be said about him.

For the first time he wondered whether it had been a good idea to awaken the Nemeton after all.


	5. Deucalion III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because you had to wait so long between chapters three and four, I figured I should post this as quickly as possible. There can never be enough Steter, can there?
> 
> One more chapter to go after this one~

When Stiles got home from the Argents, Peter’s Volvo was already parked across the street.

He asked himself fleetingly whether the man had stalked him all this time, or put a tracker on his car, and realized that he might not like the answer to that question. In any case, it seemed as if the universe didn’t want him to catch his breath.

With a tortured sigh he parked his Jeep, retrieved his bag of werewolf-repelling goodies that he kept in his trunk at all times, and trotted over to his partner in crime. Looking up and down the street Stiles really hoped that his neighbors were otherwise occupied and didn’t see him get into this particular Volvo again. His dad would so kill him for driving off with elder men.

The werewolf opened the passenger door just as he approached and studied him with a cool, assessing gaze.

“Get in.”

Stiles sighed again, _loudly_ , and did what he was told. Throwing the door shut after himself, he was pleased to note that Peter had at least enough patience to let him dump his weaponry into the backseat and buckle in, before pulling away from the curb.

“Your impatience is making me feel even more claustrophobic,” he grumbled and leaned forward to punch the coordinates of John Doe’s cabin into the satnav.

Peter smirked.

“I’m sure my impatience will cease after tonight.”

“As if.”

Stiles fumbled along the underside of his seat until he found the mechanism to moved the whole thing back a few inches and made room for his long, coltish legs. But now the seatbelt was biting sharply into his skin and he shifted around until he found a more comfortable position. With a huff he started drumming an uneven rhythm against the window frame with his fingertips.

Peter’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.

Message received: stop fidgeting. Stiles crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared out of the window instead.

Several minutes passed without either of them breaking the terse silence.

“We know Deucalion’s whereabouts _now_ ,” said Peter after a while. “But there is nothing to stop him from moving on. We can’t take that risk.”

“ _I know_ , we must strike quickly, yadda yadda yadda,” Stiles grumbled. “It’s just--”

Peter cocked his head and Stiles faltered for a moment. There was something about Peter’s controlled body language that always had this effect on him, as if he suddenly had to watch his words. Usually it caused him to babble even more, but sometimes, like now, it cut right through him and his blather.

“Look, dude, I know why this is so important to you, but--”

“Do you?”

Stiles refused to be intimidated by the lethal edge in Peter’s voice.

“It doesn’t exactly take a psychoanalyst to figure out your intentions.”

“Hmm,” Peter hummed, although Stiles could tell that he didn’t like where the conversation was headed. “You sell yourself too short, Stiles. As always.”

The man’s voice showed a mellow quality that was deceiving; a quiet Peter Hale was at his most dangerous.

He could still remember that night at the Lacrosse field, Peter standing too close, looking at him as if he were an especially delectable piece of meat, breath fogging in the cold December air while murmuring, “ _Because you’re the clever one, aren’t you?_ ”, the underside of Stiles’ chin still prickling with the memory of Peter’s sharp claw against his skin.

The eldest Hale had always seen more in him than Stiles ever did himself.

Maybe other people really didn’t see what he saw, didn’t make the connection between the tragedy in Peter’s life and the need for power and independence. And while Stiles didn’t believe that he was somehow special, others were probably just unwilling to spend an inordinate amount of time diving into matters such as Peter Hale’s psyche. Not that he blamed them.

In order to distract himself from these morose thoughts, he got out his phone and texted first his dad ( _at Scott’s for the night_ ), and then Scott ( _cover for me_ ), before deciding that he wouldn’t be able to survive this car ride in absolute silence.

With a quick glance at Peter, he leaned forward and turned on the radio. When the wolf didn’t react, he dared switching the station and soon the car was filled with cheerful pop tunes. Even so it would be a very long couple of hours.

He should really add a Gameboy to his murder kit.

*

By the time they reached the last leg of their journey, the sun was already hanging low on the horizon. Stiles’ limbs were cramping a little after having been confined in such a small space for so long, even more so because he had tried to keep his fidgeting to a bare minimum. Twitchy humans seemed to incite the killer instinct in predators everywhere and he didn’t want to risk getting mauled by the werewolf with the worst track record of showing restraint in the killing department.

They were almost at the final turn which would lead them into the woods, when Peter suddenly took a wrong exit.

Stiles was instantly distracted from his boredom as the satnav insisted they turn around, and peered quickly over his shoulder and out the rear window.

“Uhm…wrong turn, dude.”

He turned back to wolf just in time to witness an impressive eye-roll.

“Believe it or not, but I _do_ understand what the GPS is telling me.”

“Okay, then. Let me rephrase this a little; _why_ did you decide to turn off here?”

For a moment Stiles thought that Peter wasn’t going to answer him.

“There is a motel down the road,” the wolf drawled, “and we need a place to stay for the night.”

Stiles blinked owlishly. This was news to him.

“Do we?”

“Trust me, you don’t want me behind the wheel after receiving such a boost of power.”

Well. There was nothing he could say to that, was there? Stiles hadn’t exactly stuck around the night when Derek had turned into the Alpha, so he didn’t really know what was going to happen. Would he be safe with Peter? Was his humanity?

He didn’t dare ask.

*

“Motel” was a very generous word for the hovel that awaited them. It looked positively ancient and about to collapse, with its dirt-smeared windows, crumbling walls and the lone flickering light above the reception area. There was only one other car in the parking lot, probably belonging to the owner, and Stiles wondered how werewolves and hunters always managed to find these places. He certainly didn’t want to spent even a single night, especially not after his numerous experiences at shady motels that included watching his friends almost kill themselves, and murder.

When Peter pulled into the lot and parked at the far end, Stiles was only glad that they didn’t have to commit another crime at a motel. Not at that it would matter here, but he was scarred enough as it was.

Peter stopped the engine and got out of the car.

“Stay here,” he said, and walked away.

Stiles groaned and unbuckled his seatbelt. It was getting really old being told to stay behind in creepy places all by himself. Not that he wanted the clerk to know his face should the police ever turn up to question them. But still.

He leaned his face against the window, letting the cool pane of glass soothe his frayed nerves.

Would his dad be called in to investigate Deucalion’s murder? What if somebody like Agent McCall decided his dad had something to do with it, since the Sheriff had tried to track that man down?

Maybe he should tell his dad the truth. This way the Sheriff would be able to think of a plausible explanation ahead of time.

_Yeah_ , he thought, his throat closing up, _and ruin our relationship for good..._

When Peter returned to the car, Stiles was nearly at the point of _walking_ back to Beacon Hills.

“Can we please go now?” he asked and hated how Peter smirked at him. It wasn’t like Stiles was used to committing murder, thank you very much, no matter how justified that murder felt to him.

“We will continue on foot. It’s not far.”

“For a werewolf or a measly human?”

Peter cocked his head, one eyebrow raised.

“ _Objectively_.”

“Sometimes I really hate you, you know?”

Stiles stored the tiny crossbow and case of arrows with his other tools of trade and hopped out of the car, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“What about the motel,” he asked as Peter locked the car.

“No security cameras, and I paid cash. Your dad won’t be able to trace any of this back to us,” the wolf assured him, somehow knowing exactly what Stiles was secretly worrying about.

Was it the bond, he wondered, or was he simply just as much of an open book to Peter, as the eldest Hale was to him?

*

Night fell when they finally arrived at the road that would lead them into the woods and Stiles was already questioning his stamina, as well as starting to regret a variety of life choices that had led him to this very moment. He had kept his mouth shut, however, mostly because he was afraid he would puke. His anxiety had steadily gotten worse and he didn’t want to blabber it all out in front of the Big Bad Wolf.

They followed the road for a while, Stiles keeping close to Peter because his sight was exponentially decreasing in time with the the trees’ foliage growing into an impenetrable canopy above their heads.

Sometimes Peter paused and scented the air, listening intently for any sound that could belong to their enemy. Stiles would totally make fun of him, but he was afraid that it would give their position away.

When they had been walking for over half an hour, Stiles began to sync his heartbeat and breathing with Peter’s, blending his scent with the rich smell of the woods. It was easy to do now after so much practice, and he grew calmer, more sure of their plan as he felt the slow, steady rhythm of Peter’s pulse beat in his own chest.

Eventually, the paved road morphed into underbrush and Stiles inevitably stumbled over a protruding root. He hissed in pain and bit down on a curse just as Peter whirled around and glared at him.

“Be quiet!”

“Dude, I told you, I trip over everything all the time,” he replied, his voice an angry whisper, “snapping wood? That would be me. Stumbling over rocks? Also me. I can go on, but you get the picture.”

“Stumble over anything and it will be your neck that I’ll be snapping,” the werewolf growled, sounding so much like Derek that Stiles was freaked out by the family resemblance for a second.

“You say the nicest things to the person that is crucial to your plan.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“Try to step where I am stepping and you’ll be fine,” he offered and Stiles felt slightly mollified.

Then he had an idea.

Maybe there was a way he could use magic to move more quietly?

For the next twenty minutes, Stiles was glued to Peter’s heels, staring at their feet and falling into a sort of trance while he tapped into his magical core. His entire body was tingling and he didn’t really feel like a single entity anymore. Swallowed by the rich, pulsing energy of the forest, he managed to rid himself of his material beliefs. The ground underneath his feet welcomed his weight and dried leaves turned into a soft bed that anticipated his footfall. As a thank-you for its help, he let some of his magic trickle into the ground and knew that it wouldn’t betray his presence.

At one point, Peter stopped, and so did Stiles without bumping into him, completely attuned to the werewolf. A distant part of his mind told him to be worried about this, but he payed it no heed.

“No one’s home,” the wolf muttered and Stiles lifted his gaze.

Before them, at the far end of a small clearing and circled by gnarly, old beech trees, was a wooden cabin, tiny in circumference but two storeys high. There was a porch out front, sheltered by a balcony and furnished with a narrow bench. An empty terracotta flowerpot stood next to the ripped screen door, which only reinforced the sense of desolation clinging to this place.

It didn’t look very inviting or even lived in.

“His scent is strong here,” Peter commented almost parenthetically without turning around and observed their surroundings for another long moment until he seemed satisfied that his senses weren’t playing a trick on him. Then he turned to Stiles and reached for him.

He clasped a calloused hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and squeezed.

Without being told, Stiles knew what he had to do.

Turning slowly on his heels he spotted a patch of especially thick bushes that ran along the edge of the clearing, and judged it perfect for a hide-out. As he crouched low behind them, readying his weapons, the woods whispered a song of encouragement into his ears.

Leaving him to it, Peter sauntered over to the cabin and sat down on the front steps leading up to the porch.

All they could do now was wait.

*

Shortly after midnight, it all came to a head.

Stiles would surely have lost his mind already – the anticipation and nervosity driving him over the brink – if it weren’t for the sense of calm and confidence that washed over him whenever he concentrated on the bond that connected him to Peter.

The wolf’s heartbeat was as steady as a metronome, there was no uptick in his pulse, not even when he was suddenly faced with the former leader of the Alpha Pack.

From one moment to the next Deucalion bled out of the darkness as if he were using magic himself, and he didn’t seem at all surprised to see Peter Hale waiting for him. The latter got smoothly to his feet, animal grace oozing from every pore, and the two werewolves stood at opposite ends of the dark clearing, appraising each other in utter silence.

Stiles concentrated on remaining undetected, being one with his surroundings, while secretly wishing they would hurry the hell up.

“I suspected that you would track me down,” Deucalion eventually purred, his eyes glowing red in the darkness. “Drawn like a moth to the flame.”

Stiles bit back the growl that wanted to escape his throat. How dare he bring up the fire like this?

Through their connection, Stiles could feel the impact of the man’s words, even though Peter showed no outward sign that anything was amiss. But on the inside, toxic, ugly hatred coursed through them, and Stiles didn’t know whether it was his own emotion, or Peter’s.

“You made the mistake of challenging the Hale pack,” Peter drawled. “And for that you will pay the price.”

It dawned on Stiles how strange it was to see this interaction, for Peter usually attacked from the shadows. He didn’t face his enemies on the battleground, didn’t give any speeches; not when there was a chance of losing.

“An interesting sentiment, pup, but fundamentally flawed.”

On the surface, Peter merely smiled, but Stiles sensed a ripple of annoyance at Deucalion’s derision. Maybe it was really no wonder that people had problems guessing at the eldest Hale’s intentions, he thought, when the man’s self-control was so ironclad.

“Dealing with my nephew has lulled you into a false sense of security. But rest assured, I always play dirty.”

And there was his cue.

Stiles took a large handful of mountain ash and blew it into the air.

Fascinated by the sight, he watched as the shimmering powder traveled almost imperceptibly on a gentle breeze toward the two men and finally, in a sudden flash, fell to the ground in a perfect circle around the Demon Wolf.

Deucalion flinched back with a snarl.

Adrenaline was rushing through Stiles as he got up and stepped out of his hiding place. He had never felt so confident as he did now, stalking closer to his prey and seeing Deucalion’s eyes widen in surprise. The rush of power was dizzying, and he suddenly knew why Peter craved it so much.

Keeping the crossbow hidden behind his back, Stiles stopped at a sensible distance.

“Nobody ever expects the human, do they?”

To his mild astonishment, Deucalion threw his head back and laughed.

“Of all the people to show an ounce of common sense...,” he guaffed, then quickly sobered. “I expected an Argent, perhaps.”

Peter snorted. The only Argent who had the time to hunt somebody across the state followed the code and wouldn’t apprehend Deucalion until the moment he started killing again.

“Never dear Scott, of course,” the trapped wolf continued. “But you? In the service of this particular Hale? I’m impressed.”

But Deucalion didn’t give them a chance to reply. Letting out a vicious growl, he threw himself against the barrier, feet planted firmly on the ground and chest heaving as he pushed his outstretched palms into the field of glowing energy.

Stiles gasped; he could feel the pressure in his own body and mind, and suddenly understood the battle of wills that must have happened between Scott and Ms. Blake.

Concentrating on the center of his magic, Stiles pushed back.

He had no idea how long he would be able to keep this up against the Alpha werewolf who was so much stronger than him, and had decades worth of experience.

Beside him, Peter tensed slightly, because there was more to their plan than simply trapping their foe in a circle of mountain ash.

Without a moment’s hesitation Stiles retrieved the crossbow from behind his back, pointed it at Deucalion’s chest and fired.

The wolf howled in pain, but there was nowhere for him to go. He staggered back, hitting the barrier and let out a roar that rattled their very bones. When Deucalion clawed at the arrow buried in his chest, trying to get it out, he seemed to be unable to touch the shaft.

Stiles frowned in confusion, but then it hit him – the arrow had to be fashioned out of mountain ash, making it impossible for a werewolf to get it out. He probably owed Allison his first-born child by now.

The wounded wolf fell to his knees and suddenly it was a little bit easier to keep the barrier from collapsing.

Satisfied that this would surely kill him, even if slowly, Stiles turned to his partner in crime.

“How long do we wait?”

Peter shrugged.

“He’s an Alpha, it’ll take a while.”

It _did_ take a while. As they watched, the poison gradually started to take effect. Black tendrils traveled across the skin of Deucalion’s neck, turning his face ghastly white and haggard. Even though the Alpha tried to fight back, throwing himself against the barrier again and again, shouting his boiling rage into the crisp November air, his speech garbled, he was managing to gather his strength less and less as time went on.

It wasn’t as easy as it sounded, waiting the Alpha out. Sweat was starting to form on Stiles’ forehead, the back of his neck, and he could see Peter scenting the air.

He wiped it away and Peter turned to Stiles, his expression unreadable.

“You got this.”

There was no need for encouragement, for they were still in sync.

“I know.”

It seemed like hours that they were just standing there, watching Deucalion’s slow deterioration. When the shadows under his eyes took on a skeletal hue, Stiles knew that it was almost over.

Then, finally, the Alpha faltered, sinking back on his haunches, and was nothing more than a wolf at the brink of death.

Still they waited.

By the time Peter told him “ _now_ ”, Stiles had almost depleted his strength. With a flick of his wrist, he broke the barrier, glad that it was now up to eldest Hale to conclude their mission.

At that precise moment, Deucalion reared up once more and launched himself at Stiles. 


	6. Deucalion IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to [Mar](http://www.bxdcubes.tumblr.com) for offering their support and lending an ear whenever I needed it. I couldn't have done it without you, pup! <3
> 
> And thanks to everone who commented, bookmarked and liked this story, it means so much to me!

Stiles flung up his arms, still clutching Allison’s crossbow, useless now without an arrow, and braced himself for the impact, for claws digging into his flesh, hoping the pain wouldn’t be as excruciating as he feared--

Hoping, against all odds, that death would come quickly--

But Deucalion never reached him.

Through the gap between his arms Stiles could see Peter jumping between them with a force that tackled Deucalion to the ground.

He staggered back and quickly used the opportunity to insert another arrow into the crossbow, but it was no use; Peter and Deucalion were a tangle of limbs, rolling around the hard soil, and Stiles couldn’t risk hitting his own wolf, not with a weapon like this.

He had no idea what was happening, his heart lodged high in his throat as he watched for an opening, but there were only snarling, ripping noises as the wolves attacked each other, a vicious fight, far too close, but he couldn’t back off to a safe distance, not now.

Who was winning?

When they finally came to a halt, one wolf landing on top of the other, it was Peter who pressed Deucalion down with his full weight, veins in his neck pulsing under the strain, every muscle in his body taut, ready to fend off another attack.

But there was no more fight left in Deucalion, who still had the fatal arrow sticking out of his chest.

The eldest Hale lost not another second. He raised his arm high, claws glinting in the faint moonlight, and brought it down ruthlessly, slitting the Alpha’s throat.

Blood spurted and there was a gurgling sound that would follow Stiles straight into his worst nightmares.

The woods paused with bated breath, awaiting the death of a powerful creature, the inevitable transference of power.

When the last tendril of Deucalion’s life faded away, their world suddenly tipped on its axis.

A heady, primal surge of energy surged through them and left Stiles gasping wetly into the night’s cool air. He dropped the crossbow and bent over to brace his arms against his knees. He could taste tingling ozone on the tip of his tongue and knew, instinctively, that his magic was stronger now, too, stronger because Peter was the Alpha, stronger because his magic had been crucial tonight.

Peter sat back on his haunches, sucking in air and shouting his pleasure into the night.

The sound reverberated through Stiles and he trembled, turned on by the fire in his veins, his intimate connection to Peter in this very moment, so overwhelming, a frenzied high so much better than anything he’d ever felt before.

When this double vision – Peter simply another layer of his own self – finally receded, common sense came slowly back to him.

Stiles watched with hooded eyes as Peter extricated himself from Deucalion and got to his feet, his body straining to encompass the energy pulsing through him.

It was a delicious sight, muscles bulging underneath the thin layer of Peter’s v-neck, every inch the predator, a fatal confidence that hadn’t been there before.

The wolf cocked his head just so, his lips curling into a self-satisfied smirk, and Stiles wanted him so badly at that very moment, felt an answering need through their bond, wanted nothing more than lose himself in the other man. Licking his lips, he knew, despite the intoxicating high, that now was not the time.

“Should we bury him?” he asked and didn’t quite recognize his own voice for it was coarse and dark with arousal.

He didn’t even care if somebody found the body, not really, not right then and there. He was sure that nobody would be able to defeat them now.

The wolf shook his head, his movements slow and controlled.

“Animal attack,” he murmured softly and bent down over Deucalion’s body.

Stiles had just enough warning to avert his eyes, before Peter started desecrating the corpse in order to make it look like another mountain lion attack.

Even so, he thought, an autopsy would still reveal the arrow as the cause of death, or maybe aconite poisoning.

When Peter was done, he peered down at his blood-smeared hands and frowned. Casting a searching look across the clearing, his eyes finally landed on the cabin.

“Be right back,” he commented lightly.

The wolf disappeared into Deucalion’s residence to wash up, leaving Stiles alone at the gruesome scene of their latest murder.

Now that he was no longer distracted, the thick clogging smell of blood hit his nose and he turned away, gagging.

As if waiting for this very cue, his brain suddenly remembered Allison’s word of advice.

“ _Don’t leave any arrows lying around a crime scene._ ”

Well, fuck.

Grimacing, he stepped closer to the corpse and, with his head turned away, blindly groped for the arrow. When his hand closed around the shaft, slippery with drying blood, he tugged, but it wouldn’t come free.

Dismayed, he realized that the arrow was stuck.

A frustrated growl escaped through his clenched teeth and as he leaned his weight into it, he accidentally let out a gust of magic. The arrow slipped free without warning and he stumbled back, almost falling over backwards.

“Dammit,” he hissed and was just glad that Peter hadn’t witnessed his latest display of clumsiness.

Glaring down at the arrow made him realize that his things were still hidden behind the bushes and he jogged over to retrieve them, careful to collect every scrap of evidence, every piece of weaponry, and store it all away in his bag.

What was left was the body and Stiles hated that a forensics team would probably have no trouble getting _something_ off the corpse that would bring about their downfall.

Then, an idea suddenly presented itself.

Calming himself, he focused on his magic and the wind instantly replied with a quiet whisper, picking up Deucalion’s scent and carrying it deep into the woods, drawing wild animals out of their hiding spots and to the clearing.

Stiles was startled by how much he was still in tune with his surroundings and had a suspicion that the magic he had used to trap and weaken the Demon Wolf had seeped into the earth, strengthening his sacrifice; for he recognized it precisely for what it had been, an offering of his magic in exchange for the sanction of the forest.

He shifted his weight and rolled back on his heels, looking up into the night’s sky with half-lidded eyes, secure in the knowledge that he and Peter would have safe passage tonight. Nothing would dare attack them where he treaded.

He had an inkling that he would start to worry about what had happened in the cold light of the day, but for now he was simply thankful that they had succeeded in their mission.

“That was smart.”

Letting his gaze descend from the stars, he noticed Peter standing on the porch, watching him.

Of course, the wolf must have felt what he had done.

Never taking his eyes off him, Peter jumped off the porch and stalked across the clearing towards him, only stopping when he had already invaded his personal space.

The wolf brushed his thumb over the back of Stiles’ neck and leaned in to nuzzle at his temple.

“You did good tonight,” he murmured and Stiles felt his praise run through him like warm honey.

He basked in the humming connection that bound them together, basked shamelessly in Peter’s touch, his closeness, until the wolf stepped back.

“Ready?”

Stiles nodded.

Unhurriedly they walked back through the forest, side by side.

The urgency of the kill was gone, but there was a different sort of excitement pulsing in the empty space between them, something that had been there all along, buried, like a current finally coming to life, sizzling, making his hair stand on end.

Peter let out a low rumble deep in his throat and Stiles shivered with anticipation.

Him and Peter, he figured, there was no way around it. Never had been. They had laid eyes on each other and understood that they were made from the same cloth. And Peter had come back to life a lot saner than before, less bloodthirsty, and it had all led them to this very moment.

He wondered if there was such a thing as fate.

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cut the making-out part because it didn’t fit the flow of the story anymore. I will post it as a separate piece for anyone who is interested in what happens once they get back to the motel :P
> 
> It’ll be a series this way, I hope you don’t mind!


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